


Just Desserts

by TheElusiveOllie



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, Transphobia, mettaton is a salty bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 20:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10170764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveOllie/pseuds/TheElusiveOllie
Summary: A yellow SOUL is just.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Vanessa and Kitten. Your portrayals of Mettaton have undoubtedly influenced my understanding of him for the better, and inspired this little thing.

The doors for these human buildings really must be widened, Mettaton thinks as he is forced, invariably, to stoop in order to fit in through the frame. They are far too short, and not nearly wide enough to accommodate the monster populations that have begun to spill into the denser human cities with more verve, now that a certain  _ delightful  _ ambassador has greased the way for new rights and policies; granting monsters the right to  _ exist,  _ as heaven  _ forbid  _ they simply have such rights as a default.

But. He’s getting ahead of himself. Doors are one thing. Elevators are quite another. There’s a person already inside it when the doors slide open, and the poor person’s eyes widen as they take the whole of him in, every fashionable inch, resplendent in a sleek black jacket with the pink trim, just the color scheme Blooky knew he liked best, the curved pads of his shoulders reflecting the overhead fluorescent glare. And there is nothing to be said of the height, of course, the way he hardly has to lift his chin to look down his nose at them.

They scurry out almost at once with a mumbled apology that emerges as little more than a garbled string of formless syllables, whether out of intimidation or nervousness or some other quaint little human impulse, he does not deign to guess. In he sweeps with an unintentional but nonetheless suitably dramatic flourish of hair and jacket, forming two sculpted metal fingers into a blade to hit the floor button corresponding to the address on his card.

It took him some time to locate it, but it will be worth it, should he find what he needs. One booted toe taps out a beat to the clicks and groans of the great metal box (he shudders) as it hoists itself up to floors one, two, three - four, at long last. With a quiet  _ ping  _ and a faint pneumatic hiss, the doors hush open, and out he steps.

His heels do not quite echo with the satisfying  _ click  _ that they do in his apartment suite, one which he insisted have no carpeting whatsoever, if only so he may hear the incredibly gratifying tap of his heels against the floor. The acoustics to the place simply lent themselves to the sound of it so very  _ nicely,  _ and it would have been a shame not to take full advantage.

This complex, in addition to being a considerably more drab building than he would have entered of his free will on any other day, regrettably did not make such a wise decision on its part; the hallway is, indeed, carpeted, and he will have to make do with making his strides brusque and even, crossing the space in as brisk and efficient a means as possible.

He stops outside apartment 416. Swiftly, smartly, he raises a hand and knocks. When there is no immediate response, he knocks again.

He is roughly ten seconds from up and kicking the damn door in when it finally swings open.

And  _ then  _ comes the moment he has been waiting in giddy anticipation for, ever since he set foot in this awful building.

The human at the door gapes. Based on the stained t-shirt, the close-cropped hair, the suspiciously flask-shaped lump at the pocket of those jeans that have  _ assuredly  _ seen better days - he would have to assume this would be  _ him.  _ And, in parallel, in  _ dazzling  _ parallel, stands the one and only bonafide  _ star  _ of the Underground, the robot who rose to fame and captured the nation’s heart with one well-manicured hand and a winning smile.

The exact sort of winning, showman’s smile he flashes to the man at the door now. He can only imagine the picture he must be striking: one hand braced against a cocked hip, a flash of brilliant white between perfect lips, a lock of hair stylishly falling across one eye, the other appraising the human with a delicately arched brow.

Every inch of him is perfect, and unimpressed, and  _ intimidating. _

The human, in the same moment, cannot seem to find the words requisite to respond to the unmistakeable monster celebrity that’s inexplicably showed up at his door. It really is for the best that he was able to evade the usual flurry of cameras and paparazzi that typically flock after his every step and movement. Shyren has been enlisted to field the interviews and appointments for the day. She has that strange little burger monster to assist her, should it grow to be too arduous. He can’t possibly be worried.

No, he can’t possibly be worried. Not today. Today, his interest is wholly focused on the human standing before him.

“Hello, darling!” He brings one hand up until it’s level with his cheek, fluttering his fingers in a coy little wave. Perfectly disarming, and perfectly personable. “A moment of your time, if you please!”

It is not a question. It is a demand, plain and simple. For once, devoid of the pomp and gilt that can embellish any situation in a heartbeat. He does not wait for an invitation to enter. These -  _ people  _ \- have lost their rights to such things.

The human is having trouble scraping his jaw off the floor, it seems. Well, who could blame him? He’s brilliant. He’s beautiful. He’s a star, and should one be foolish enough to stare at him for too long?

Why, he will _burn_.

He bustles after, though he’s yet to form anything more than a gibbering concatenation of words Mettaton does not stoop to hear. The place within is, unsurprisingly, a wreck, and this is with the full knowledge of the sort of squalor  _ Sans  _ lives in, day by day. There is a long line of glass bottles that have collated beside the over-full garbage bin; a ziggurat of dirty dishes heaped in the sink; a heap of undeniably dirty laundry on a scuffed couch that must have, at some point, been intended for some washing machine or another, only to eventually become fused with the grotesque landscape. He sweeps his gaze over the whole of the mess with a cold dismissal before at last settling upon an utterly unobjectionable kitchen chair, devoid of any of the detritus that plagues the rest of the place. The whole area smells of smoke. No questions as to from where  _ that  _ particular aroma stems.

He scrapes the chair across the tile, turns it neatly, and perches upon its end, legs crossed, palms of both hands poised atop a sculpted kneecap.

“What are you - ” begins the human, having mustered the requisite brain cells to form monosyllabic words at  _ long  _ last, but his efforts are utterly wasted.

“Do you live alone here, sir?” Mettaton overrides him easily, his tone nothing short of utterly professional.

“Do I - no. No, of  _ course  _ I - ” And they’ve regressed back to worthless stammering. Wonderful! 

The human eventually  twists about with a rough bellow of a name Mettaton does not bother to keep stored away in his proverbial memory banks. The owner of said name is equally forgettable, when she appears: a mess of dark curls, a haphazard and scattered look to her, her tone breathy with frantic awe as she begins to gush about the  _ honor  _ of having an actual celebrity enter their home.

Indeed, the only notable thing about her is her eyes. Brown, deep, rich - the eyelids not quite so heavy, but a confirmation he has been waiting for, nonetheless.

“It’s no trouble, darling,” he says, airily, completely indifferent to whatever praise the woman in question seems to have been spouting since first laying eyes on him. And who could blame her? He is a  _ spectacle. _

But, alas, he is not here to be a spectacle.

“I came here for a very  _ singular  _ reason, you see.” He fixes her with an unblinking stare and a broad smile. A faint flush has worked its way into her cheeks.

“Oh! What do you - I mean, how can we help you?” Just as ill-equipped to address him promptly as her man, apparently. He finds himself considerably less  _ forgiving  _ of this pair than any friend of his. Where Alphys’s stumbling and stammering has always been endearing, born from a deep-seated fear of interaction, as though every word is an imposition upon everyone’s much more important and valuable time,  _ these  _ two - why, it’s simply fluff. It serves no purpose. They are shocked, certainly, but who wouldn’t be, upon opening the door to a well-known and highly fashionable robotic celebrity?

How can I  _ help  _ you, says the woman, and his smile widens, pleasantly.

“I came to speak to you about your child, actually,” he says.

The woman blanches. The man advances a step.  _ Adorable,  _ really, the way he looks be bracing himself to sweep manfully to her rescue against the perceived slight.

“You’ve seen h▓█?”

And it’s

  
  
  


The  _ wrong word. _

It is in that precise moment that he knows his choice in coming here was the right one.

“I know  _ them  _ rather well!” he trills, wholly composed despite the heavy emphasis he piles onto the word. “Surely you’ve seen  _ them  _ on the news? The ambassador between humans and monsters, why - you must be  _ so  _ proud!”

He’s laying it on thick. The man narrows his eyes, apparently suspicious, but the woman seems not to have caught on just yet.

How sad for her.

“Child protection said they’d get  _ back  _ to us!” Her hands have begun to flutter about her front, making tiny, minute adjustments to the hems of her shirt-sleeves, the ring on her finger, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Oh, I’m not with child protection. I’m not even a representative,” says Mettaton. His smile is plastic, the curves of his face lending themselves well to the expression. Alphys  _ did  _ know to tailor the thing to his exact specifications. 

“No,” he continues, with only the faintest prim twist to the words, “they rejected your claim not long after they saw the burn marks.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


The pair of them go silent.

The man’s hand goes to his pocket - doubtless where a packet of cigarettes nest, quietly.

“What do you know about it?” he begins, all self-righteous anger, and the full force of Mettaton’s gaze snaps to fix itself on him.

“A good deal more than either of you do, I’m sure.” With a scalding condescension, his stare like a spotlight, and to absolutely no one’s surprise? It seems the pair of them have contracted an abrupt case of  _ stage fright. _

“They have no right,” the man continues, furiously, stabbing a finger in Mettaton’s direction.  _ “You  _ have no right! They can’t keep us from h░█!”

He uncrosses his legs. He stands.

It’s at times like these that he really must thank Alphys for knowing to make him so tall. It makes for such an effective  _ loom. _

Both of the humans quail, instinctively.

“Frisk has a rather fatal flaw.” He clasps his hands behind his back, and never once does his tone deviate from its pleasant, breezy default. Scorn is too good for the likes of them. What they require is  _ dismissal. _ “They’re rather prone to forgive those that have hurt them. I don’t expect you to know that. Why, that would require more self-awareness than people like  _ you  _ ever possess!”

The man’s face is reddening; whether out of shame or out of anger, Mettaton finds he neither knows or cares to.

“They have, for whatever reason, refused to press charges. They will not file for a restraining order.”

“▓░e is  _ our child!”  _ cries the woman, having apparently found her voice at last, shrill as it is. “We - we  _ raised  _ h░░!”

The words rake across his ears, sickeningly, fuzzing over in smears of dirty static. Were he one who possessed organs, they would be roiling in his stomach at the epithet. He is in Waterfall, again, incorporeal and formless, and a monster dismisses him with an incorrect title and leaves him in a shivering wreck for the rest of the day, happily oblivious.

Happily,  _ stupidly  _ oblivious.

Something in him hardens; a SOUL of iron and gold.

After comes a litany of curses from both their mouths, ugly and twisted expressions of outrage, some verbal excoriation that contrarily emerges as more of a verbal  _ puff and whimper,  _ as harmless as the illusion of danger that stalks the hero of the story. It is, after all,  _ his  _ story, and the hero does not perish when he has not even reached the climax.

This is but a small obstacle, soon to be removed.

“You terrorized them,” he proclaims flatly, and the woman deflates at that, her shoulders dropping, her mouth falling open.

“Now  _ see here,”  _ begins her gallant defender, valiantly, but with the placement of his hands upon his hips, the lift of his chin, the hard point of light of his frostily neutral stare, he, too, seems to lose his steam.

“And their  _ parents _ would no sooner allow them near you than they would a rabid animal near an infant.” He had rehearsed that bit, and it emerges every bit as grand and derisive as he could have hoped. The pair of them go ever so frightfully pale.

“But,” begins the man.

_ “We’re  _ h▓█ parents.” She has the  _ gall  _ to sound hurt, practically whimpering it.

Well.

She lost the right to that a  _ long  _ time ago.

“Then you should have considered acting like ones.”

Neither of them seem to have anything to say to that.

It is just as well.

He did what he came here to do, and he sweeps to the door, crossing the space in a handful of easy strides. The carpet, again, denies him the delightful click of his heels against the floor, but the shame and silence that follows more than makes up for it.

He half-turns before he reaches the doorway, once again offering them a chilly smile.

“If you attempt to contact them again, either of you,” he informs the dreadful pair brightly, “rest assured, my dears: I will make your life  _ hell.” _

The door swings shut behind him with a satisfying snap.

All told, the entire ordeal took little more than thirty minutes. It won’t be throwing him off schedule in the least. In any case, he has a flight to catch.

* * *

He’s back in New Ebott less than a week later, to pop in and check on Alphys and to catch up with the great sprawling family that has more or less taken permanent residence there, with their treasured ambassador as the epicenter. They have a mother and a father, a long line of aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings, and it takes little more besides a quiet aside to Toriel to ensure that the letters, the calls, the requests for personal information - have all stopped, abruptly and without any external indication as to why.

How convenient for her, he thinks. How very convenient for all of them.

He spends a night off with Alphys on the couch, his favorite little co-star on the rug with a bowl of popcorn between their legs, crunching on the treat happily as a snarling, animated villain plunges down a screaming abyss in a flash of red, unmourned. A despicable end for a despicable human being, truly.

“Did you like the movie, darling?” he asks them, once Toriel emerges from the hallway to bundle them off to bed. It is indeed rather late, and she informs them with a quiet scolding that it is far past their bedtime. Frisk manages a sleepy nod, even with the back of their wrist rubbing beneath their heavy eyelids.

For a moment, he can contemplate the scene as it would unfurl in all its glory: a dramatic reveal, a celebratory litany of praises for his actions, his nobility, his charm, how much  _ happier  _ the little human will be without that pressure hanging about their head.

For a moment, he can just  _ imagine _ .

  
  
  


Toriel has to carry the child to bed, while Alphys peers at her friend nervously from behind smudged lenses.

“Wh-what was that about?” she ventures cautiously, eyes darting to the hallway into which Toriel and Frisk have just vanished and then back to him again.

“Oh,” says Mettaton, with a reassuring pat to her spiky head, “nothing, dear."

 

 

Nothing at all.


End file.
